


practice room 12

by Schlafwandeln



Category: Monsta X (Band)
Genre: Flashbacks, High School, Kinda, M/M, Plane rides, changkyun is simply Remembering, pianists!hyungkyun, that's it really, this is just one big drabble lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:35:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25706764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schlafwandeln/pseuds/Schlafwandeln
Summary: In which Changkyun finds freedom in Hyungwon’s piano notes.Alternatively: Changkyun’s thoughts on his flight back home.Rated M for expletives and smut.——-“Ladies and gentlemen, we are one hour away from Gwangju, South Korea. The weather is quite harsh: light snow and approximately seven degrees — but the forecast for tomorrow morning looks lovely, ten degrees and sunny. There is a time zone differe—“He puts his earbuds in his ears and plays Mahler.Once more he closes his eyes, ignoring the default map on the screen in front of him, the plane icon still moving ever so slowly. Behind his eyelids, the picture paints itself: a small room, a window on the side, a lone piano in the middle.Mahler’s Adagietto is arguably the most beautiful part of his fifth symphony.He just wishes Hyungwon remembers the piece like he does.
Relationships: Chae Hyungwon/Im Changkyun | I.M
Comments: 18
Kudos: 42





	practice room 12

**Author's Note:**

> some things:  
> \- if you're interested in the pieces that they're playing, there's [a playlist on youtube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fZrm9h3JRGs&list=TLGGY3n7byvXQJQwNDA4MjAyMA) with all of the mentioned pieces!  
> \- don't skip school, kids. ck & hw are just being edgy teens here 'v'  
> \- ck’s father and hw’s parents are being portrayed in a rather bad light here. of course i mean no offense to ck’s real father and hw’s real parents — i’m sure they’re lovely people. this story is completely fictional -- the people in it are plot devices. please do not take offense.  
> \- can we talk abt pianists!hwck? pls sb write a musical/theatre!au ;;;
> 
> as always: no profit, mx not mine.
> 
> enjoy~

> _ You can't ask a tree to blossom if it isn't spring  
>  Don't leave the house at midnight and expect the birds to sing  
>  If you're looking for a reason, you needn't even try  
>  Sometimes, it's time to let a good thing die _
> 
> _ Bruno Major - To Let A Good Thing Die _

**_2020 - late winter._ **

_ “Dear passengers, we are halfway there in our flight to Gwangju, South Korea. In a few moments, the flight attendants will be passing around the cabin to offer you hot or cold drinks, as well as a light meal. Please—” _

Whatever.

It’s all background noise for Changkyun.

He checks his phone again. The in-flight Wi-Fi is shit, but it is working. It’s 8 degrees in Gwangju, light snow. He locks his phone, pockets it, then closes his eyes. Leans his head back against the headrest that is still way too low for his height, after all these years.

He lets the faint hum of the airplane lull him into a memory.

* * *

**_2015 - early winter._ **

He’s always been the odd one out.

“Everyone, please welcome your new friend, Im Changkyun.”

At least, that’s what Changkyun thinks his teacher is saying. His Hangul is still very basic — after living in Boston for so long, it’s hard to re-learn a language he’s only used briefly in his childhood. Kind of odd: someone with a Korean name and a Korean face who speaks shitty Korean. Even the Passport Control Officer had commented on it after seeing his American passport — again, at least that’s what Changkyun thinks he says, anyway.

And no one moves, of course. He’d expected this to be awkward. But then again, he shouldn’t be surprised — the same thing happened in America. People are afraid of change. It brings them out of their comfort zone, and it makes them uneasy. He understands. He walks to the only empty seat: in the far corner, next to the big windows on the right side of the class. 

The person next to him seems to be sleeping, his chin rested on one of his palms. Changkyun takes him in: long limbs, black hair that goes over his nape, a piece of cloth tied loosely around his neck.

On his textbook, on the top left corner:  **Chae Hyungwon - 12B**

“For lesson, I want you open your book where we last are—”

He barely understands what the teacher — Ms. Kim, it read on her name tag — says. Which book? Which page? But everyone starts opening their textbooks: worn out and used. Changkyun’s textbook is shiny and still in its plastic wrap. He peers over to Chae Hyungwon, who has awoken from his slumber. His textbook is on page 34. 

Changkyun opens page 34 to be greeted with paragraphs upon paragraphs of Hangul, printed in a font several sizes smaller than the ones in his ‘Hangul Basics’ book.

He sighs. Looks out the window. It’s snowing out.

It’s an accurate representation of his mood.

* * *

**_2015 - mid-winter._ **

School in Korea is as strict as he expected it to be. 

The most obvious restriction, and the one he loathes the most, he thinks, are the uniforms. Back in the US, he could wear whatever the hell he wants, so long as it’s “formally appropriate”. No, scratch that — he’d seen people come to school wearing crocs. No one cares in the US — the freewear made it feel less suffocating; less cage-like. 

Here, each garment is checked. White button up, black tie, school jacket, long ankle-length trousers. A sweater, if you want. Everyone wears the same damn thing. Everywhere he looks, he sees the same colors, the same outfits. So monochrome, so uniform. 

So much like a prison. 

Which is why, here he is, in the middle of basic calculus, but not in his classroom.

The hallways are deserted, which, of course, makes sense, since everyone is currently on their respective periods. It’s so deathly silent in the corridor — he’s used to it being crowded: people murmuring phrases he knows not the meaning of, whispers behind hands that are covering mouths or ears, stares at the new Korean kid who does not know how to speak Korean. 

He sighs. He should be used to it, but he isn’t. 

No matter. He’s moving back in a year, anyway. 

His footsteps echo as he walks further. He’s never been to this part of the school — where all the practice rooms are for the school’s extracurricular programs. Some doors have tall, thin windows on them, through which he sees various musical instruments: trombones, drums, flutes. He wonders where he can register — though, if he thinks about it, he’s probably forgotten how to play the piano. 

Piano. 

The sound of a piece he recognizes. 

He turns, spotting a lit practice room through its windows. How could he have missed this? And that piece; what is it? He knows the tune so well but he can’t quite place it. 

He peeks into the room. 

Long limbs. Black hair that reaches his nape. Handkerchief loosely tied around his neck. 

Chae Hyungwon from his class is playing. 

The piece is slow, a lullaby. He could listen to this on loop and sleep. What major is that? D-flat. He knows it. But what is it—

Ah. 

Clair de Lune. 

Debussy. Suite Bergamasque, third movement. 

Chae Hyungwon plays as if he’s in front of an audience: his eyes closed, back straight but not stiff, hands light on the keys. Sunlight comes in from the big windows on the other side, and it illuminates his side, as if it were a spotlight, as though Hyungwon is on a stage and is performing in front of an audience.

It reminds him of a swan — the elegant curve of Hyungwon’s posture, the way he plays: airy, as though lightly floating above water. Hyungwon is a swan in this ugly, ugly prison; he is free from the confines of strange looks, of not knowing how to speak a language that people associate you with, of whispers that aren’t quiet enough for one to overlook.

And Changkyun — who has long associated himself akin to a caged bird — wonders what it feels like to be a swan.

As the music stops, Changkyun flees, continuing to wander the empty corridors of his cage.

* * *

**_2020 - late winter._ **

Airplane food is… well, airplane food. 

The texture of the scrambled eggs they’d served reminds Changkyun of papier-mâché — nonetheless, it still reigns true that anything tastes better at high altitudes. The eggs aren’t that bad; at least he gets to fill his empty stomach. 

As he looks at the passing clouds outside, a thought occurs to him:

Isn’t this what it feels like to be uncaged? To be flying amongst cotton-candy clouds in an endless blue sky?

He sighs. Settles his gaze on the ever-so-unmoving plane icon in the screen in front of him. 

He’s uncaged — but why does he feel so stuck, still?

* * *

**_2015 - early spring._ **

Chae Hyungwon is not on his seat. 

He left about fifteen minutes ago, saying something about stomach pains or some other equally-deceptive reason, and hasn’t returned since. Now, the norm would be to assume that Chae Hyungwon is currently in the male’s restroom, having an incredibly difficult series of bowel movements.

But again, Changkyun’s always been the odd one out, hasn’t he?

And so he makes a similarly-deceptive excuse: a migraine, which needs the ailment of a painkiller from the infirmary. It’s a well-rehearsed phrase — which involved dictionaries and various beginners’ guide videos on the internet. The teacher, then, looks at him with that signature worried-teacher look — downturned eyebrows and all — and Changkyun has to reassure her that yes, he can walk there himself, and that yes, he’ll take a proper rest next time.

And so he’s out of the class. And so his feet bring him to a place he already memorized the route of. And so he peeks through the tall window:

And sure enough:

Chae Hyungwon is on the piano in Practice Room 12.

He’s playing Strauss’ Danube Waltz; Changkyun immediately recognizes the piece — how could he not?

It’s the last piece his mother played for him.

And here, he sees their similarities — her frail, delicate hands; his long, delicate fingers. Her lengthy black hair, falling over her shoulder as she left it untied; his long black fringe, falling over his eyes as he plays. 

Her smile as she plays; his smile as he plays.

Changkyun is mesmerized; he stands there transfixed, arms clutching on the frame of the door, head peeking in through the window. The music comes to an end as the movement slows, and Hyungwon’s fingertips accordingly become feather light, just barely pressing the keys. Changkyun is still hypnotised by the time the music ends.

Hyungwon opens his eyes, finally—

And makes eye contact with Changkyun through the tall window.

Changkyun freezes.

Hyungwon closes the cover, dusts his thigh, and walks towards the door, opening it. 

“You use?”

He knows Hyungwon probably speaks more eloquently than that, but Changkyun’s limited knowledge in the language makes him sound like a caveman. Nonetheless, he’s fixed in place, as though set in resin, still mesmerized by the image of Hyungwon and his fingers on the keys. Hyungwon and his pseudo-playing-to-the-audience. Hyungwon and—

“Hello…?”

He realizes then, that he’s been staring for far too long. Heat fills his cheeks. Hyungwon tilts his head and asks again:

“You will use?”

Changkyun stumbles out a response, “uh… I… no—”

He shakes his head. Clears his thoughts. Focuses all his brainpower to his very limited mental Korean dictionary.

“Er… y-you… you play jovial. Very jovial.”

Hyungwon looks at him strangely. Fuck, he must’ve gotten something wrong, then.

“Uh.. I meant… you play very… nicely.”

“Ah,” Hyungwon brightens up. Smiles. “Thank you.”

Changkyun looks at the floor as if the carpet is some fascinating specimen.

“Y-you’re welcome.”

“Want come?” Hyungwon says, while pointing to the inside of the room.

“Sure,” Changkyun replies, following him inside. “Uh...— sorry, I… Korean… a little… er, hard to speak…”

“Ah, that’s fine,” Hyungwon says with a smile. “You will learn shortly.”

Chae Hyungwon from 12B, his seatmate for two months now, plays him two more pieces: Vivaldi’s Winter and Pachelbel’s Canon in D. The most average of pieces, the most ordinary; the ones everyone knows and every moderate pianist can play.

And yet he’s still enthralled with Hyungwon’s elegant playing. His nimble fingers, his expressions: eyes closed and brows furrowed, his feet working the pedals. Changkyun finds himself closing his eyes as well. He rests his head against the window. Immerses himself in the music — no words, no need to translate, just notes that flow together to create an alluring melody.

And so here, in one of the music practice rooms in Gwangju High, Changkyun finds a new form of freedom. That is, skipping calculus to listen to classical pieces. He realizes, then, that Hyungwon must be skipping as well.

Whatever.

That doesn’t matter.

He looks out the window — Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet playing in the background.

It snows, still, but he doesn’t feel as cold inside.

—-

**_2015 - mid-spring._ **

Hyungwon is playing a piece Changkyun doesn’t recognize.

No matter. Changkyun still looks at him distractedly. What is it with the way he plays that makes it look so elegant? Maybe it’s the way his eyebrows furrow in the more difficult bars of the piece. Maybe it’s the way he bites his lips as he approaches the fortissimo — the way his shoulders jolt as he presses down hard; so expressive, as though lost in a tangle of his own music.

Today, they’re skipping Korean Literature. Well,  _ Hyungwon _ is skipping Korean Literature, because it is an optional course and Changkyun had very wisely opted to not take it. It still feels so free here, despite the practice room being small: the large windows, letting in the perfect amount of sunlight spill through — not too much, but also not too little. The comfortable warmth of the room, in contrast to the sheen of fog outside; it is spring, but the cold still stays. 

The best part: no hard words; just music.

He and Hyungwon: they rarely speak. They sneak out of class together — which usually involves toilet trips and infirmary trips or the like — and walk down the deserted corridors of the school until they reach this very room. Once they’re here, Changkyun sits near the window, Hyungwon on the pianist’s chair, and all he hears after that is either the sound of papers as Hyungwon shuffles his music sheets, or of the piano itself as Hyungwon plays. Anyone rarely says anything. 

And yes, Changkyun’s Korean is much better than it had been when he came, but he still prefers to not speak it if possible. Listening, he finds, is much easier than speaking.

There is, however, one other sound. 

Sometimes, when Changkyun recognizes the piece Hyungwon plays, he will hum. It’s a whole octave lower, but when he does that, Hyungwon smiles — the apples of his cheeks rising, his eyes crinkling in the corners. 

Changkyun doesn’t fight the grin that invades his face as he sees that.

Time moves quickly here — two normally-long periods in class go by as though they were ten short minutes. It scares him a little, how fast the days are going by.

Sometimes he wishes he could slow time down.

He doesn’t realize the music has stopped until Hyungwon comes to sit next to him, his gaze towards the gardens outside — it is a large patch of grass that circles a large fountain in the middle. During recess, students would sit on the grass, uncaring of the grass stains that would inevitably ruin their trousers and jackets. 

But right now, the grass patch is empty. In fact, the whole place is empty, save for a few sweepers who are cleaning the little bits of fallen leaves here and there. It looks peaceful like this; just the fog and the newly-bloomed flowers of spring. 

“That was Mahler’s Adagietto,” Hyungwon says — the sound of words in this room is still a little strange to Changkyun. 

“How did you know I didn’t recognize it?”

“You didn’t hum.”

“Ah.”

A pause.

“Why do you come here?” Hyungwon asks.

Changkyun glances over. Hyungwon is still looking towards the fountain outside.

“To… er, watch you play it,” he says, while pointing to the piano — because he doesn’t know what it is in Korean — as though it is the most obvious thing on earth.

Hyungwon smiles. “You like the piano?”

“Yeah,” Changkyun says, glancing away. “Yeah.”

“Makes you feel free, doesn’t it?”

His head darts to Hyungwon again. He finds that Hyungwon is already looking at him, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Y-yeah…” he says. “How do you know?”

Hyungwon glances away, to the piano, and then to outside.

“I feel the same way.”

And Hyungwon — who, in the short time that Changkyun has known him, is always nonchalant; has always got that calm, serene expression on his face — is now frowning slightly, his eyebrows furrowed just so, his lips downturned the tiniest bit.

And, for the first time, he thinks, maybe Chae Hyungwon from 12B isn’t so unfettered after all.

* * *

**_2020 - late winter._ **

_ “Ladies and gentlemen, we are one hour away from Gwangju, South Korea. The weather is quite harsh: light snow and approximately seven degrees — but the forecast for tomorrow morning looks lovely, ten degrees and sunny. There is a time zone differe—“ _

He puts his earbuds in his ears and plays Mahler. 

Once more he closes his eyes, ignoring the default map on the screen in front of him, the plane icon still moving ever so slowly. Behind his eyelids, the picture paints itself: a small room, a window on the side, a lone piano in the middle.

Mahler’s Adagietto is arguably the most beautiful part of his fifth symphony.

He just wishes it came from the piano in Gwangju High’s twelfth practice room.

He just wishes it’s produced by those long, nimble fingers.

He just wishes Hyungwon remembers the piece like he does:

Of confessions and beginnings.

* * *

**_2015 - early summer_ **

He’s walking to the twelfth practice room — their practice room, when he hears a slight yell from inside. 

“You have to take school seriously, Hyungwon,” a female voice he doesn’t recognize. “You can’t keep skipping classes, y—“

“I’m top of the class,” Hyungwon says, voice ever so calm. “They only ever look at numbers, don’t they?”

“Well,” Changkyun can already hear the female voice growing hesitant, “well, yes, but—“

“Well there you have it,” Hyungwon replies, starting to press some keys on the higher registers of the piano. 

“Your behaviour is unacceptable!” she yells once more, trying to make her voice louder than the piano’s, “what would your parents think?!“

Hyungwon stops playing. 

The sound of the pianist’s bench scraping the floor. 

“My parents,” Hyungwon says, “do not give a single shit about what I do.”

“The—“

“No. They want a pretty face for the company — someone who rouses attention, like those pretentious-ass ice sculptures in their parties—“

“Listen!” she shouts, “ _ I _ care about you!”

Silence. 

“No,” Hyungwon says, then, through his teeth, “with all due respect, Mrs. Lee, you only care about me because of the fat wads of cash they keep shoving in your purse.”

A tense bout of silence. 

And then the slam of the practice room door. 

And then the bench’s scrape once more. 

And then. And then. 

And then Chopin’s Nocturne, in E-flat major.

Changkyun makes sure to wait a couple seconds before walking in.

Which, he quickly finds, is not enough to feign cluelessness:

Nocturne stops; Hyungwon’s gaze is still glued on the keys, “so, how much did you hear?”

“Er— ah, I—”

“Don’t bother lying. I don’t mind you knowing.”

Changkyun is still frozen in place; much like that first day he found Hyungwon. This time, though, instead of mild surprise in his heart there is fear, sadness, anger? Why on earth was he angry—?

“Changkyun. Tell me.”

“I— Your parents,” he says, moving closer, “they’re paying the principal.”

Hyungwon scoffs. Changkyun’s afraid he’s said something offensive—

“Damn right they are.”

Changkyun moves to sit on his usual chair near the window.

“How do you do that?” 

“Psh, I don’t know, Kyun, lots and lots of money and influen—”

“No,” he clarifies, “I meant, how do you get top in class but skip?”

Hyungwon, for the first time today, lifts his gaze off of the piano and stares at Changkyun, seemingly dumbfounded.

“What.”

“I- I mean, it can’t be easy, right?” he says, “not getting lectures, but still getting good grades — no, the best grades...”

Hyungwon is still silent, mouth slightly agape.

“I-I mean, uh, it’s like, impressive,” his Korean is starting to malfunction, as if it’s a corrupted program installed on a machine, “how you, uh… classes, er, don’t go, I mean, skip, er—”

Hyungwon stands, then, and for some reason Changkyun curls up on himself, expecting a strike or a bout of acidic words — though he knows Hyungwon is not that kind of person — but still, he shrinks himself, makes himself as small as possible—

Hyungwon hugs him.

And Changkyun is caught so off guard he doesn’t return the hug at first. He sits there stiffly, Hyungwon’s arms around him enveloping; his head on his shoulder warm; his whole entire body so close, so warm—

Changkyun hugs him back, slowly, his hands snaking their way around Hyungwon’s slender torso. It’s a little awkward, this hug, because none of them says anything and they’re a little closer than usual, but eventually Hyungwon breaks off, and Changkyun too, and he sees his face and—

And. And Hyungwon’s cheeks are pink.

“Uh— Um, I-I don’t know why I did that—“

“Hey,” Changkyun says, placing a palm on his shoulder — Hyungwon flinches slightly. “Hey, it’s fine—“

“I-it must have been uncomfortable,” he continues stammering, shaking his head as he retreats further away, “uh, I’m incredibly s—“

Changkyun pulls him into another hug. 

Hyungwon freezes up immediately — he feels the exact moment it happens: like a string pulled taut.

“Hey,” he says, as though speaking to a frightened animal, “why are you so tense? Hugs are fine.”

Hyungwon doesn’t slacken. 

“Uh, it’s just— I don’t— Err…”

Changkyun swipes long, broad strokes on Hyungwon’s back under his shirt. It’s fascinating, how as the tension melts off Hyungwon’s stature, as he relaxes more and more into the embrace, Changkyun feels it leave him in waves, as though it’s a tangible thing, as though he could see it as it’s siphoned out of Hyungwon. 

He feels it as Hyungwon drops his forehead on his shoulder; it’s warm through the fabric of his thin, summer uniform. 

“You’re not used to this,” he says. 

Hyungwon doesn’t answer. 

“That’s fine, you know.”

A small nod against his shoulder. 

“Th—“ 

There is a slight dampness on the fabric of his shirt on his shoulder. 

“Thank you,” Hyungwon whispers.

* * *

**_2015 - late summer._ **

The normal way that one’s psychology works, at least for introverts, is that the more you know someone, the more comfortable you become in their presence and thus the less shy you become. It’s obvious to anyone -- and Changkyun means anyone, even without an extensive knowledge in Psychology, right? 

So why is Chae Hyungwon the opposite?

Why does Chae Hyungwon now avoid his gaze at all costs, after five months of friendship? Why does he stammer when he speaks? Why does he flush when their shoulders touch, when they sit a little too closely, speak a little too softly?

There is really no need to ask all these questions, he thinks, as he puts his hands over his eyes to shield his burning retinas against the overhead fluorescent bulb. Oh, the drama! Why is he being so dramatic? He’s laying on his fucking bed, asking questions not anyone knows the answers of, asking one particular question that he doesn’t want to think abo—

Why does he like it so much when Hyungwon flushes? Why does he find it so endearing? Why does it make him smile when he thinks of him? Why, why, why.

Okay, maybe several particular questions.

His phone rings, suddenly.

He raises his hands away from his eyes, looking at the caller tag. 

**_INCOMING CALL: Father_ **

Fuck. He sits up straight, mentally prepares himself, and slides the button over.

“Father,” he says, keeping his voice neutral.

“Changkyun. How have you been?”

It’s been so long since he’s heard anyone use English that it sounds a little strange to his ears. 

“Good,” he replies, fiddling with the hem of his shirt, “as always.”

There is a strange pause on the other side of the line. 

“So, what made you call?” He asks, a little hesitant.

“Can a father not ask how his son is doing?” 

_ Bullshit. _

“O-of course you can,” he says, quickly fixing his mistake.

There is an odd art to childhood abuse: no matter how much you’ve grown, how far away you escape, or where your abuser is, your body initiates its responses anyway. 

He feels it immediately: his heart rate increasing, the nerves in his feet tingling, ready for fleeing, his body bracing itself for blows to the torso, his mind putting up its mental shields, ready for verbal degradatio—

“Your mother’s birthday is tomorrow.”

Changkyun hasn’t forgotten.

“Yes.”

“What should I get her?”

He’s silent for a moment.

“Father,” he says, slowly. “She’s dead.”

His father laughs, as though someone being deceased is a comedic matter.

“I know, son,” he says, “I’m visiting her grave tomorrow.”

He knows he shouldn’t say it. He knows he should just stay quiet. Give a generic answer, like a bouquet of lilies or some other symbolic gift in the myriad of things people give to the deceased. It should be easy. It’s merely one word. And yet what comes out tumbling out of his throat is a series of words he immediately regrets:

“I wish you’d cared like this when she was still here.”

He panics.

“W- I didn’t m-“

His father laughs again.

“You haven’t changed, son.”

“Please— I don’t—“

“Still Mommy’s boy after all.”

“I—“

_ Beep, beep, beep. _

He throws his phone across the bed. He curls into himself. His breathing is uneven — his vision is blurred; swirling, swirling. Fuck. Fuck. Panic attack. What did his therapist say? Doesn’t matter. Not important. It’s getting harder to focus. He has to— he wants—

He scrambles to grab his phone.

**_DIALING: Chae Hyungwon_ **

His ragged breaths match the beeps as he waits for Hyungwon to pick up. Pick up. Pick up. Please pick u—

“Hello?”

“W-won,” he says, panting, still, “please, I—“

“Changkyun? You alri—“

“Yes, yes,” that voice. Imagine he’s in the practice room. Big windows; the piano in the center—

“P-play something,” he says, “please.”

“On the piano?”

“Yes.”

“Alright,” Hyungwon says, and he hears several doors open, several doors close, “preferences?”

“Anything.”

The scrape of the bench. Some notes being played. A scale Changkun can’t be bothered to name.

Then, Chopin’s Nocturne. From two months ago. 

Changkyun puts his hand over his eyes. Imagines they’re in the twelfth practice room of Gwangju High. Imagines Hyungwon; illuminated by the sunbeams from the windows. Imagines himself, mesmerized, looking at Hyungwon — his long, long eyelashes; his furrowed brows; his lip as he bites it.

And just like that he falls asleep: his phone on speaker, a static-y version of Hyungwon’s playing in his ears, tears on the crook of his elbow.

He barely registers it when Hyungwon eventually stops playing, whispers, “good night, Kyun.” and ends the call.

**_Chae Hyungwon_ **

**_CALL ENDED_ **

**_Time: 9:23:15_ **

* * *

**_2020 - late winter._ **

_ “Ladies and gentlemen, as we start our descent, please make sure your seat back and tray tables are in their full upright positions. Make sure your seat belts are securely fastened—“ _

In hindsight, he should have known that a nine hour call meant something.

He should have told him then.

But when has Changkyun made good decisions?

_ “Flight attendants, prepare for landing.” _

As the plane cuts through the clouds, as he approaches the ground, Changkyun closes his eyes. Leans back again. His feet ache from being folded for seventeen hours, and he looks forward to standing.

Looks forward to Gwangju. To winters. To snow.

He’s leaving the obvious out.

* * *

**_2015 - early fall._ **

“I know you can play.”

Changkyun’s attention snaps away from the yellowing tree-leaves on the school’s grounds. 

“Sorry, what?”

Hyungwon comes to sit next to him. Places his head on Changkyun’s shoulder. It’s an intimate gesture, this, and neither of them talk about how close they’re sitting, how their thighs touch, how they can feel each other’s warmth. 

Changkyun suspects they’re both scared of their own feelings. 

“I know you can play the piano too.”

He nuzzles his cheek against Hyungwon’s hair. Sets his head into a more comfortable angle. 

“How do you know?” he asks. 

Hyungwon hides his face. 

Changkyun looks over; the tips of his ears are bright pink. 

“I’ve been watching you,” he said, muffled into the sleeve of his jacket. “Your fingers — when I play, you match the notes without realizing.”

Changkyun laughs. Ruffles Hyungwon’s hair. 

“So you’ve been attentive.”

Hyungwon’s ears flush further. 

“Y-you’re just… I-I like looking at you.”

_ He’s adorable. God help me.  _

His hand pauses in their act of petting Hyungwon’s hair. Changkyun settles it on Hyungwon’s nape instead — which, as he observes, continues to steadily grow pinker and pinker. 

“I like looking at you too, you know.”

There is no reply, and Changkyun is about to leave it at that when Hyungwon’s voice sounds once again, small, almost undecipherable:

“I’m glad.”

Changkyun smiles, then, and after a final ruffle of Hyungwon’s strands he goes over to the piano. He pulls the bench back — feels the vibrations of its ever-so-familiar scrape on his palms, and sits down. 

He looks over to the window; where he usually sits. Hyungwon is looking at him. Curious, waiting, expectant. 

He raises his hands. The school’s piano is different from the one his mother taught him with, but then again, the keys remain the same. He settles his fingertips against the keys. Settles his feet on the pedals. 

He closes his eyes. 

Thinks of his mother; how she guided him: Changkyun would play the right hand part of the piece, and she would play the left hand accompaniment. And then, once Changkyun has memorized the melody enough, he’d try with both hands, stumbling his way through the piece. All the while, his mother would watch from behind, occasionally placing her hand on his shoulder for a gentle show of support.

He plays Canon in D. Just the right-hand melody.

It’s not very complicated; it’s a beginner’s song after all. He plays through the intro, only with his right hand, and at this point he’d expected himself to remember the left-hand melody but it hasn’t yet come to him. It continues, until he’s about one-fourth into the piece, his left hand just hovering above the keys, when he feels warmth on his back.

Hyungwon is there.

He moves to sit on the left side of the bench; their thighs are touching again. Changkyun’s playing stops momentarily as he stares, confused.

“Play,” is all Hyungwon says.

And so Changkyun does. The simple right-hand part, from the beginning.

And after sixteen beats, Hyungwon joins in.

And it’s his childhood all over again. As the whole piece enters his ears in its entirety, as the melody completes itself, as his tempo gets faster, he feels the nostalgia flush through him — suddenly he is seven again, he is in his mother’s lap again, she is here again—

Changkyun stops.

Hyungwon stops.

He caresses Hyungwon’s left hand with his own, and places his fingers atop the keys.

And plays Canon in D with both hands.

It’s starting to feel like their first months here. No talking, just music. Hyungwon stays seated beside him, occasionally swaying to the melody, and Changkyun finishes the piece with a flourish — the way his mother taught him. 

“You’re good.”

“Psh, it’s like a black belt complimenting an orange belt.”

“They have orange belts?” Hyungwon asks, leaning his head once more into Changkyun’s shoulder — Changkyun suspects his shoulder is becoming Hyungwon’s favorite settling ground. “Orange belts in Taekwondo?”

“It’s the second from the bottom.”

Hyungwon hums. They settle in a comfortable silence, Changkyun’s fingers entertaining themselves with a random assortment of scales.

“It’s already September.”

Fuck, is it? He’s got about three months left. Fuck, he’s forgotten that he’d have to go back this December. 

Go back to Boston. To monochrome buildings and manacles. To life before Hyungwon.

Fuck.

_ Fuck. _

“Changkyun?”

“Y-yeah. Sorry, what did you say?”

“We’ll graduate in three months.”

He pauses.

“I know.”

Hyungwon adjusts his head — rolling his stiff neck before settling again.

“I can’t wait,” Hyungwon says.

Changkyun stares at the piano’s keys. Makes a decision in his head.

“... me neither.”

* * *

**_2015 - mid-fall._ **

He was never really one of faith. Once a person passes away, he doesn’t believe that they go to a place that sounds way too good to exist. It’s simple biology, he thinks. Their deceased body is buried in the earth, and as it decomposes the little micro-organisms benefit from the nutrients that it brings. 

It’s morbid, but it’s the reality.

But for today, for today only, he prays. He prays to his mother.

_ Let me stay with him. _

He presses the correct contact in his list, and places his phone against his ear.

Stares at the ceiling as it beeps once, twice, thrice—

“Hello, son.”

He inhales.

“Father,” he says, keeping his voice as neutral as possible. “How ar—”

“Cut the formalities. You can’t have called for no reason.”

He bites his tongue.

“I— Er, I think… maybe— I just—”

“Son,” his father interrupts, “you’re wasting my time.”

Changkyun inhales. Fuck, his heartrate is already spiking. 

“I- I think I’d like to stay here,” he says, quickly, “in Gwangju.”

There is a pause. It’s too similar to the one from their previous calls. There are goosebumps on his skin; he’s sweating despite the fall’s cool air. Breathing is important, according to his therapist, so Changkyun focuses on that--

“You’re troublesome, you know?”

Fuck, fuck, he knows he shouldn’t have said anything.

“First you beg me to not send you over, and now you want to stay.”

“I’m s—”

“I am sick of your childish antiques, Changkyun.”

Breathe. Inhale. Exhale. His throat is growing smaller — the bridge of his nose is starting to sting with that familiar feeling just before—

“You remind me of your mother,” his father says, laughing.

“I’m sorry, father, please—”

“She was selfish, you see,” he is ignored, caged, manacled, “she was always thinking of herself — she never thought about what others were going through.”

At this point he’s just holding his pathetic tears.

“You know better than to disappoint me, Changkyun.”

And the call ends, just like that, and Changkyun is once again panting, struggling to see straight, and his trembling fingers are already doing their routine without him even realizing it—

“Kyunnie?”

“H-Hy— Won—”

“You’re cr—”

“No. No. C-can you please play?”

A pause. No more pauses. Please—

“Yeah,” Hyungwon answers finally, “yeah, of course.”

There are familiar footsteps, and again the opening and closing of doors.

“What,” Hyungwon sounds like he is out of breath, “what would you like me to play?”

Something, anything—

“J-just… something that makes you happy.”

Another pause. He really can’t take it anymore.

“Alright.”

There is a thud as the phone is settled somewhere. The scales again; quicker than usual. A couple of random notes.

Then: Strauss’ Danube Waltz.

His mother’s last piece, that day he sat next to her, watching as she played. Her frail, bony hands on the keys — the top of which is littered with bruises of IV needles. The day before he lost her; the day before he felt so truly alone.

Their first piece, that day he peeked through the window, the day he found his freedom, the day his prison felt less suffocating, the day he found Hyungwon. Found his way out; his escape from alone—

Which he is going to lose again soon.

That’s when he breaks.

The tears he’d been holding in — they come out as though a hole has been punched through a large water reservoir. He’s properly sobbing, wailing and all, and it must sound horrible but the piano does not stop, the call does not stop, Hyungwon does not stop—

“I’m sorry,” he says, after what felt like an eternity of sobbing, although he doesn’t know who he’s directing his apologies to, “I’m so sorry—”

“Kyunnie.”

The piano has stopped.

“Why are you apologizing?”

_ Because I’m leaving you.  _ “I- I—”

_ Because I’m going to lose you.  _ “I don’t know.”

_ Because you’re going to lose me.  _ “I really don’t know.”

And then just like that, the piano starts again. At first Changkyun thinks it’s a piece he doesn’t recognize, but it’s Mahler.

Confessions and beginnings.

* * *

**_2020 - late winter_ **

Plane landings are scary, for some, and Changkyun completely understands. It’s loud, the plane shakes as though the earth has been shook with an earthquake of a great magnitude, and you barely know what goes on outside — just through the tiny window on the side of your seat. 

But to Changkyun, it is satisfying.

That thud as the plane’s wheels hit the runway. That feeling of your whole entire torso being pushed back against the seat. You can feel it as the plane slows down; see as the landscape passes by your window — slower as the plane approaches its stop. After that, the plane parks, and it completely stops, and then the seatbelt sign goes off with that signature airplane beep. 

It’s like a job well done. The pilot ought to be proud of himself.

_ “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Gwangju Airport. The local time is 4.30 p.m. and the temperature is eight degrees celsius. Please check around your seat for any personal belongings you may have brought on board with you and please use caution when opening the overhead bins—” _

At this moment, his shuffle plays Debussy’s Clair de Lune.

Changkyun is smiling as he exits the plane.

—-

**_2015 - late fall._ **

Hyungwon, just last week, has printed a myriad of pieces for piano duets. In the beginning, it was an absolute disaster — their tempos weren’t synchronized and their hands bumped against each other’s way too often. 

However, just like anything, it gets better with time. Eventually, they’ve established a system: tapping their feet and keeping it in time with each other. Eventually, they learn to keep a moderate distance between their hands. Eventually, they make it through a piece without much difficulty.

After that, Hyungwon replaces the sheets, and the process repeats itself over again from the beginning.

Somewhere in the middle, Changkyun stops playing altogether.

Hyungwon, naturally, follows suit.

“This is about last month, isn’t it?”

Changkyun nods.

Hyungwon takes Changkyun’s hands in his.

“Tell me,” he says, “whatever it is, tell me.”

Changkyun looks up. Into earnest brown eyes behind black strands of hair.

Changkyun, more than ever, wants to kiss him and tell him that he’s sorry, that he wants to, more than anything, to stay, to find out more, to be his freedom like he was Changkyun’s, to give him a glimpse of what it feels like to be unmanacled, even if not fully.

“I- I— I don’t— I’ll be—”

Sand fills his throat. Damn it.

“I will be going back to the US. This December, after we graduate.”

Changkyun is tired of pauses and the uncertainties that involve them.

“A-and it’s likely that I won’t be able to—”

Hyungwon’s hand twitches against his.

“To come back, for some time.”

Hyungwon stares at an indistinct spot next to Changkyun’s thigh.

“...how long?”

Changkyun looks away.

“I- I don’t know.”

He braces himself for the anger, for the ‘why didn’t you tell me sooner’s, for the bolting out of the room. He closes his eyes, clenches them shut, stiffens himself despite his chest feeling like it’s being hollowed out with a dull carver.

And then, hands on his jaw. 

His eyes fly open.

Hyungwon is smiling; there is a sheen to his eyes.

“Okay,” he says, voice high, shaky, unsteady, “okay. Alright.”

“Hyu—”

“Let’s make use of our two months, then, shall we?”

_ No. I want more than two months. There’s still so much I want to show you. So much I want to do with you. So many pieces left to play— _

“O-okay,” he replies, placing his hands above Hyungwon’s on his jaw, “yeah, okay.”

And as they continue with Debussy’s Petite Suite, as their practice room fills with unspoken words, Changkyun feels as though he’s in a cage again.

* * *

**_2015 - early winter._ **

The practice room feels smaller — them in their graduation outfits: full dress suits, vest and tie. They sit together on the pianist’s bench: Changkyun on the left side — the lower notes, and Hyungwon on the right — the higher notes. They’re playing Schubert’s Fantasia in F-minor. A difficult piece, but they’ve played so many duets together that it’s starting to feel like a well-practiced waltz.

They’re nearing the climax of the piece: the tempo gets just a little faster, enough to make Changkyun struggle to turn the page. He’s approaching the last bar now; not knowing if he have enough time to flip the sheet.

But Hyungwon suddenly stops, his hands lifting off of the keys, his head bowed down, gaze seemingly locked onto the brass pedals at the foot of the piano.

Changkyun stares. 

And then does the same.

Leans his head on Hyungwon’s shoulder; presses his thigh against Hyungwon’s. 

And then a light weight atop his head. A hesitant hand — long, pianist’s fingers — on his knee. 

He knows what is coming next. 

“You’re leaving,” Hyungwon says.

He doesn’t reply; there is no need. 

“I thought I could pass it off like another missed opportunity,” he continues, “but, i-it turns out you’re more than that.”

There is an advantage to a practice room with extraordinary acoustics, obviously. But when it is silent, then it is  _ silent _ . Silent, so much so that he could practically hear Hyungwon’s blood as it flows through its vessels, hear his heart as it beats. 

Hear as it breaks, piece by piece. 

“I-I know you’re leaving,” Hyungwon says, voice just barely above a whisper, and, oh god, is that a stifled intake of breath? “A-and I know there’s nothing I can do about i—“

“Won,” he interrupts urgently, “please, if I could stay, I w—“

“I know.”

The weight of those words. To have someone trust you that much. Changkyun thinks his heart might be fracturing slowly — kind of like a rock put under a dripping faucet. 

“I know,” Hyungwon says again, softer, rubbing his thumb on Changkyun’s knee. “A-and that’s what makes me sad.”

The room is surely shrinking; why else does Changkyun find it harder and harder to breathe?

“Is everyone this unlucky?” Hyungwon says.

Changkyun slides his arm across Hyungwon’s back and settles it on his waist.

“No,” he replies, firm. “No.”

“You deserve so much more,” Changkyun says, rubbing small circles with his thumb.

Hyungwon laughs scathingly. Changkyun’s heart feels as though someone’s stepped on it.

“I only want you, Changkyun.”

“No, Won, you d—”

“I do, though.”

Changkyun pulls him in closer, tighter.

“You deserve someone kinder, someone better,” he says, voice on the verge of giving out, “someone who your parents would be proud o—”

Hyungwon shoves him aside, roughly releasing himself from Changkyun’s grip. Changkyun stares: Hyungwon’s breaths are heavy — his shoulders moving with every inhale; his hands are fists on his sides.

He moves closer.

And slaps Changkyun across his face. Hard.

“Do. Not.”

His voice shakes as he says it. 

“Don— Don’t make it sound like you’re worthless.”

“Hyungw—”

“I’m not a greedy person, Changkyun,” he says, and his voice is at that precipice of almost breaking but holding on, “I rarely want.”

“I’ve never wanted anything,” he continues, “I’ve always followed other people’s — my parent’s -- wants.”

He moves closer. Oh, the practice room must be half its size. Changkyun is deprived of all ability to think, to breathe, to do anything—

“But you,” Hyungwon says, voice so gentle, so soft, so fucking vulnerable—

“I have money, Kyun, there’s hardly anything you can’t buy with it.

“So I’ve never known what it feels like to want,” he says, and oh, Changkyun wants to scream, shout, tell him that he is already his. “To— to desire something; to want to mark something as yours.”

“Won—”

There are fingers on his lips.

“But you — I want you.” Hyungwon’s hands are on his shoulders now. “God, I do.”

That pained expression; those glassy eyes — he hates that he’s the cause of them. If the outcomes of the universe were up to him, he would deprive Hyungwon the ability to feel sorrow. If he could, he would make it so that only smiles and happy memories flood Hyungwon’s systems.

But life is rarely ever that simple, isn’t it?

Hyungwon’s voice cracks, finally, “a-and it breaks me that— that you want me too.”

A tear slides down his cheek. The sky outside is getting grayer by the moment. Hyungwon trails his fingers on Changkyun’s jaw, caressing it lightly, lightly.

“B-but then,” Hyungwon continues, “why is it…”

The first drizzles of rain and snow falls — they strike the window with a soft _ tick, tick, tick. _

“Why is it that I still can’t have you?”

And then suddenly he can’t bear it anymore. Seeing Hyungwon this pained, to be the cause of his pain. It’s suddenly all too much, all to suffocating — it’s starting to feel like his first few months here: caged, manacled, trapped—

He gently places his hands on Hyungwon’s forearms and stands.

Brings Hyungwon’s arms down. Puts his own hands on Hyungwon’s waist under his suit jacket. He looks into his eyes — still glassy; still moist; still so  _ pained _ — and although he is a whole inch shorter, although they are not entirely touching, Changkyun feels as though he is connected to Hyungwon’s soul. Why else is he able to feel the same pain in his chest?

“Listen,” he says, placing his hands lightly on Hyungwon’s jaw near his ears, “you’re mine.”

Hyungwon emits a choked sound.

“Do you hear me?” Changkyun presses, insistent, his gaze steady, unmoving, “you’re mine.”

“Yes,” Hyungwon replies breathlessly. “Yes, yes.”

Changkyun raises himself up on the tips of his toes and kisses him.

And first kisses shouldn’t have felt so painful. Hyungwon’s lips shouldn’t have tasted like his tears. It shouldn’t have been raining outside — thunder and lightning every so often. It feels so wrong — why were they still in their graduation suits? Why were they still at school — his prison? Changkyun imagined their kiss to be a hundred times more romantic, a thousand times sweeter, but all he can think of right now is Hyungwon’s shaky hand on his chest; Hyungwon’s whimpers as he struggles to kiss and breathe and cry; the rain outside as it gets progressively louder—

He comes up for air.

He and Hyungwon are both panting. They’re so close that Changkyun feels his warm exhales caressing his eyelashes.

“And I’m yours,” he says — whispers, “alright, Won?”

Hyungwon nods as more tears fall.

“You have me,” god, please let his voice be steady, just for now, just for him, “no matter where I am.”

Hyungwon nods again.

“So— so don’t worry, alright?”

There comes no answer. Just the sound of Hyungwon’s breaths as it progressively gets more regular. And then after a few seconds; after a few calming inhales:

“Y-yeah,” so soft, that if they weren’t this close it could have been passed off as a fleeting wind. “Yeah.”

The room gets progressively darker as more rain falls. They’re sat on the floor: Hyungwon’s head on Changkyun’s shoulder; their hands intertwined. In the distance, the graduation goes on: cheerful dance tunes permeate their practice room, even with its acoustics, but all Changkyun hears is the rain, Hyungwon’s breaths as he silently cries to sleep, and his promises — promises that he’s not sure he can keep.

_ You’re mine.  _

_ I’m yours. _

_ You have me. _

The practice room is smaller — it’s filled with empty words and fallen tears.

* * *

**_2020 - late winter._ **

He’s home, he thinks. 

He’s home — everything is written in Hangul, everyone speaks in Korean, he doesn’t get stared at for how he looks. 

He’s home. 

As he retrieves his baggage, finds a quiet coffee shop and sits, ordering a hot latte. 

He grabs his wallet and scoops out his tiny Korean SIM card from its place in his wallet.

* * *

**_2015 - early winter._ **

Changkyun knocks on Hyungwon’s door — the address of which was given several months ago for a visit that never happened. 

He doesn’t know why he knocks. His flight is in two hours and he needs to be there before check-in, but he continues to knock anyway, and he still does not know why, why he is here and why he isn’t trying his best to forget about Hyungwon at this point. 

He knocks once more, expects no answer, and is about to leave for good when the door opens, and Hyungwon is there. 

A pause in which they stare at each other. 

“... you’re here,” Hyungwon says. 

“My flight is in two hours,” he replies. 

“Why are you here?”

Changkyun looks at his feet. 

“I don’t know.”

After a few seconds, Hyungwon steps aside, still not saying anything. 

Changkyun doesn’t know why he steps in, his suitcase trailing in behind him. 

“Your parents?”

Hyungwon takes his coat. 

“They don’t live here.”

“Ah.”

While Hyungwon busies himself with Changkyun’s coat, he stares at the frames on the wall: music certificates in beautiful gold frames. 

If he looks closely, some of them are torn. 

He looks down, then, at the carpet. 

There is a hand on his shoulder. 

“Hey,” Hyungwon says. 

There is already regret in his brain.

“I have to leave.”

Hands encircling him. Hugging him from behind. 

“I know.”

His hands on top of Hyungwon’s — Hyungwon’s chin on his shoulder. 

“I-I don’t want to leave.”

“I know.”

He turns; they’re face to face. 

He gathers Hyungwon in his arms. Places his fingertips against his jaw. Brings their faces closer, closer, millimeters apart. 

Hyungwon whispers against him, “can I please have you?”

Changkyun, despite himself, smiles. 

“I’m already yours, Won.”

Their second kiss is not like their first. 

It’s hungry, desperate — like a fire about to engulf a two-storey house. Hyungwon’s lips are softer against his own, and as Changkyun slips his tongue into Hyungwon’s mouth, their tongues brushing for the first time, Hyungwon emits a moan against his lips. 

It sets Changkyun aflame. 

They continue — Changkyun’s hands on Hyungwon’s waist under his sweatshirt; Hyungwon’s hands on his hair, raking, pulling. Eventually Hyungwon opens a door, and they’re in what Changkyun assumes is his bedroom, and Hyungwon grabs Changkyun’s hand to pull him towards the bed. 

He falls above Hyungwon, propped up by his hands on either side of Hyungwon’s head. 

Hyungwon is flushed, lips rosy from their kissing, hair tousled from Changkyun’s wandering hands, and Changkyun wants him, wants him for himself, wants to be selfish for once. 

“Do you want this?” He asks, dreading the refusal, the rejection.

But Hyungwon only flushes further, averts his gaze, and nods.

Changkyun smiles. He leaves a trail of kisses down Hyungwon’s neck, earning him a number of breathless gasps from above — Hyungwon’s legs are still tightly clamped shut; his arms stiff on his sides.

“Relax for me,” Changkyun whispers against his ear — Hyungwon gasps again, covering his mouth with the back of his hand as Changkyun trails his hands up, up his torso, onto his waist, towards his pectorals— 

“I- I-  _ haanh— _ It’s hard to—  _ haa— _ ”

If Changkyun was doubtful whether Hyungwon has had any experience with this, he is no longer that. From the way he squirms, the bright red flush across his cheek and down his neck, the little whimpers he’s still trying to hold in, the answer is obvious.

“Can we take this off, Wonnie?” Changkyun asks, as he bunches up the fabric of his sweatshirt in his palm. 

A feeble nod. 

Changkyun lifts his sweatshirt up, up, over his head — and then as he tosses it across the room he looks at the vast expanse of pale skin exposed to him. He traces his fingertips over the soft lines of Hyungwon’s stomach; the ridges from his ribs; his waist. All the while, Hyungwon shivers with every stroke of his fingertips, and that does wonders to his libido. 

He’s still distractedly stroking Hyungwon’s waist when Hyungwon mumbles something incoherent. 

“Sorry, what?”

“I- I said,” Hyungwon repeats, covering his eyes with the crook of his right elbow, “s-stop staring so much…”

“Oh?” Changkyun smiles, “but you’re so nice to look at, Won.”

Hyungwon crosses his left arm atop his right and groans. 

Changkyun continues his ministrations: gentle strokes of his palms that never quickens, never falters. Eventually, Hyungwon is gasping against the back of his hand, little whimpers escaping through his lips, and when the fidgety jerks of his hips grew harder to hide, Changkyun leans down to kiss him, swallowing his breaths, his wanton sounds. 

He touches Hyungwon over his pants. 

Hyungwon jerks, hard. 

_ “Haaah— _ Chan— Changkyun—“

“Good?”

There is no worded reply, but the way Hyungwon moans as Changkyun strokes him through the fabric is enough of an answer for him. 

Changkyun leans down, peppers butterfly kisses on Hyungwon’s jaw, down his throat, where his adam’s apple bobs as he gulps, across his chest — light, light caresses with his lips, against a flushed nipple — Hyungwon jolts, his hips canting up, up, his length slotting perfectly into Changkyun’s palm. 

_ “Haa—  _ god— _ “ _

Hyungwon pulls him by the back of his neck for a kiss. It’s getting harder and and harder to breathe, to think, not when Hyungwon writhes under him, not when Hyungwon’s moans sounds like this, desperate, wanting, pleading—

“Kyun,” Hyungwon says through his gasps, “you too.”

He pulls at the hem of his hoodie. Changkyun takes it off in one swift tug, throwing it aside. He discards his pants as well, leaving him in his boxers, and once he’s done with this whole ordeal, he goes back to the bed, where Hyungwon lays, still, his gaze affixed on Changkyun. 

Changkyun smiles. “Like what you see?”

Hyungwon flushes. 

“I-I told you I like looking at you…”

He crawls over to Hyungwon. Nips at his ear with his teeth. Whispers, “and I told you the same thing.”

Hyungwon shivers. 

He slots his fingers under Hyungwon’s waistband, tugs at it questioningly, before Hyungwon makes a move to get rid of it himself — his long, milky legs revealed to Changkyun as the sweatpants leave his body. After, Hyungwon clamps his legs close — he is tense again. 

Changkyun crawls down, a trail of kisses down Hyungwon’s torso in his wake, his hands stroking Hyungwon’s waist, his hipbones, his thigh. His legs part, albeit hesitantly, and Changkyun sees the outline of his length through his boxers in between his thighs. 

He runs a fingertip down — Hyungwon arcs up. 

“This for me, Wonnie?” 

“Wh- who else?  _ aanh--“ _

He teases — light, barely-there touches of his palm against the hot fabric. Hyungwon writhes underneath his hands; so pliant, so desperate. His cock twitches upwards, as if searching for his touch, for more—

“T-take it off,” Hyungwon says finally, voice small, high-pitched, whiny, “please — you too.”

And so how could he refuse?

And then Hyungwon is revealed to him. Unreal. Changkyun presses himself against Hyungwon, finally, and they’re skin-on-skin against each other. It’s warm, warm, as Changkyun does his best to burn this into his memory — to embed the small whimpers that Hyungwon makes as he touches his length for the first time, to engrave the feeling of Hyungwon arching up against him, to never forget the desperate variations of his name that comes out of Hyungwon’s throat—

“Ch— Kyun—  _ haaanh—“ _

Hyungwon’s hips thrust in time with his strokes. His moans are getting more high-pitched, more uncontrolled, and Changkyun knows that in a second he will come, he will arch against him—

An urgent hold on his wrist. 

His hand is pushed away, and he is pushed to lie on his back. He has to be hallucinating — a flushed, panting Hyungwon is above him, their hard lengths touching—

“Together,” is all he says. 

Together — Hyungwon’s long, lithe fingers circling their cocks. His desperate thrusts against Changkyun’s length. His increasingly-ragged moans—

Changkyun sits up, kisses Hyungwon, and puts his hand around their lengths. 

_ “F— haaa,  _ yes—“

And oh, it’s heavenly. It’s warm, it’s perfect. Hyungwon’s chin settles on his shoulder, each ragged exhale brushing against Changkyun’s ears, and it’s then that he tenses up, arches, groans. 

“Fuck, coming—“

“Haaa— Kyun— coming—“

They come together. 

And streaks of white paint their chests. It’s perfect; like the flourish after they finish a piece with no missteps. Changkyun strokes them to completion, until Hyungwon twitches in his palm, and they sleep like that — sticky, against each other, close, warm, free. 

Uncaged. 

*****

Changkyun wakes up to the sound of a piano playing a familiar piece. 

He recognizes it after a couple of seconds. It’s Schubert’s Fantasia, but it’s incomplete — it’s missing the left side of the playing. 

He gets up to go clean himself up, but he finds his torso free of spunk. Changkyun moves to find his clothes, to find it already neatly folded on the side of the bed — he puts them on quickly and follows the sound of the piano. Through the door next to that of Hyungwon’s bedroom, he finds Hyungwon playing a baby grand piano.

He sits next to him, where Hyungwon has left a space.

And plays.

His mind jumps back to that first day he found Hyungwon.

Right now, he thinks, as he keeps in sync with Hyungwon’s playing, even for a short while, he’s experienced life as a swan — floating gracefully, peacefully, undisturbed.

They finish the piece, hands hovering above the keys after the last note; it’s fifteen minutes to his flight.

“Changkyun.”

“Yes?”

“I-If after all this,” Hyungwon gestures with his hand, “if after this you’re still mine—“

“Always, Won.”

“Come back to me,” Hyungwon says.

“Of course,” he answers, just half a breath after Hyungwon finishes speaking.

“C-come back,” Hyungwon repeats, choking on a sob, “please.”

Changkyun hugs him, and as Hyungwon clings to the fabric of his sweatshirt, as his cries get louder, Changkyun wants, above all, to protect him and to never let him be sad again.

Ironic, since he’s the cause of his sadness.

“Yes,” he says, having no idea if it’s true, “yes.”

* * *

**_2015 - early winter._ **

_ “Dear passengers, we are halfway there in our flight to Boston in the United States. In a few moments, the flight attendants will be passing around the cabin to offer you hot or cold drinks, as well as a light meal. Please—” _

Whatever.

It’s all background noise for Changkyun.

He checks his phone again. The in-flight Wi-Fi is shit. He locks his phone, pockets it, then closes his eyes. Leans his head back against the headrest that is way too low for his height.

And tries not to think of Hyungwon. 

* * *

**_2020 - late winter_ **

He slides the SIM tray in, powers the phone on.

He presses the contact he’s got favorited.

It rings thrice before someone picks up.

“... Kyun?”

Changkyun doesn’t hold back the smile that stretches his lips.

Oh, how he misses that voice.

“I’m back, Won.”

**Author's Note:**

> i'm honestly kinda unhappy w this. decided to post it anw since the chaekkung tag needs more Love ;;; (might make a sequel ha ha haha.. ha??)
> 
> how is everyone? my tailbone hurts from sitting too damn much. i should really move orz -v-
> 
> kudos and reviews are dreamt about every night TvT thank you for reading <3


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